


inhale, exhale

by Liryczna



Category: Shards of the Sun
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, I'm sorry I wrote this, M/M, Multi, and everything in between, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9996626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liryczna/pseuds/Liryczna
Summary: scents, all of them.





	

When she is given the pop-out card of her home, the whole room smells like glue and Ivia sniffs, trying to get the strong scent out of her nose. Cyn is smiling at her, and she startles, a little uncertain what to do, but there is nothing much to say apart from “thank you.” Gifts like this one are not to be taken lightly, Ivia knows. It is a hand stretched out, and she takes it, eagerly, the good and the bad, accepting everything with the stark clarity that her life gave her. Now, now, before it is too late.

(When they are gone and Nil is asleep, she takes the card out of the book and tries to find that smell again. It irritates her nose, but it is calming, and soon she falls into her dreams as well, the house she left behind welcoming her again.)

 

***

 

When Flick casts a spell, her magic smells like ice, the even surface of a lake frozen over, clear and dangerous like a knife. It spreads through their bedroom, the wild magic striking the other bed again and again, and soon the temperature drops as well, spreading goose bumps over Oswald’s skin.

He remembers it well.

It is almost funny, he thinks absently a few nights later, once again wide awake in the bed, that the scent of magic does not remain. Instead, entangled with them and taking far more space than should be possible, Flick is all coriander and peanut butter.

(When asked about it, Albany just makes a face.)

 

***

 

They all said she was cold, but for Steffit, Gin was always heat, a blade tempered over open flame, burning with passion hidden in the steel. Her hands always smelled of ink and wax, the papers she stretched on the desk, countless pages shifted from one pile to another.

He tells her that, late at night when other words run out, and she tells him his scent is that of cedar, wood freshly cut and shaped. Next morning, he bends over their family table and runs his hands over the carvings, heart beating quickly even after all those years.

 

***

 

It is intoxicating, this scent. Rain and anticipation, danger and lightning, it lures all who catch it, begs them to get closer again. Nil knows that well enough, without fully understanding the reason, and often covers it with heavily scented soaps and oils, the alcohol poured down his throat.

This way it is easy to forget.

After all, they all love the scent of the storm, and fear the thunder, it’s quickness and burn when it strikes them. He waits for someone who would dance in the rain, and then, when a bolt strikes, stop in amazement and stare.

 

***

 

A small accident happens, and he is not sure how, but there are wood shavings in his hair. Hari sighs as she orders him to shake them out, careful not to get splinters in his skin. Rodhlann uses his fingers and draws blood, and Hari scowls, but shaking his head does not work. He tries, then gets dizzy and has to sit down and rest. Finally, she is forced to help, picking them slowly with one hand. Too bad that resin already got on his hair.

He smells like a sawmill for days.

 

***

 

There is a scent to an arrow, quick and true as it strikes a heart. There is a scent to the bowstring pulled, vibrating when released. There is a scent to the air cut, the panic, the fear, the betrayal, and his heart broken before it was pierced.

There is the scent to the end of his world, and the Keeper remembers it well. Once, curled up on the bed into the expanse of Grifaris’ chest, he might have mistook it as something else.

He knows better now.

(Before, the smell of frost clings to the Keeper’s skin, but Grifaris feels like he is the one melting instead.)

 

***

 

He falls asleep under the tree, and wakes up covered in bright red leaves. There is the moss, squashed under his weight, pressed right into the collar of his shirt, and a few sticks in his hair.

Kavius is not used to all this: the nature, lack of civilization and rain. He thinks it is soaking into his bones, the cold biting at his body, the smell branding itself into him.

In the next tavern, he tries a bath but it does not help. Even after a day away from home, he is changed.


End file.
